With these shreds They vented their complainings, which being answered And a petition granted them, a strange one, To break the heart of generosity, And make bold power look pale, they threw their caps As they would hang them on the horns o' th' moon, Shouting their emulation.

Talking isn't doing. It is a kind of good deed to say well; and yet words are not deeds.

Thou art sad; get thee a wife, get thee a wife!

The tongues of dying men enforce attention like deep harmony.

As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport.

An old black ram is tupping your white ewe

O, she's warm! If this be magic, let it be an art Lawful as eating.